


A list of things to do be-

by cruciomysoul



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barely Legal Tim, Bucket List, Multi, Neglectful Parents, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trip, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruciomysoul/pseuds/cruciomysoul
Summary: -fore I die.{This is the new, updated version of the story}





	A list of things to do be-

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A List of Things to do Bef-](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170242) by [cruciomysoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruciomysoul/pseuds/cruciomysoul). 



> honestly i blame [CheshireCaine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCaine) and you all should too.  
> anyway!!! i'm re-writing my old fic, but i didn't wish to delete it or revamp it so i've just added a forwarding link to it! Using the same title and the premise is essentially the same, just with some things done differently.  
> also writing this it turns out it's been exactly 3 years since i last updated it??? what a wiLD coincidence it's clearly fate i can't believe i've been writing fanfic for so loNG (2009 was my first ever embarrassing fic but thats enough about that)  
> also if you've been redirected here from the previous version pls tell me what u think of my writing now, 3 years on ????? I'm a hoe for feedback

The static grew louder in Tim’s ears, a constant, shrill ringing intermittent with words like ‘terminal’ and ‘stage four’ and ‘prolongue’, along with phrases such as ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘there really isn’t anything else’. His father argued with their - his, Tim’s - doctor, riled. Tim heard large sums of money being tossed around, dangled in front of the doctor’s nose. The mentions of ‘second opinions’. He didn’t much care for it.

Tim already knew he was going to die one day. He had accepted it, a long time ago, (10 years, 4 months, 12 days), when he watched the soul of his Nanny leave her body, witnessed the silver whisps exhale from her lungs, through her mouth, her nose; cried as the fire dimmed in her eyes, silent, tears of insecurity and loneliness. She was his friend. He had wiped them away before his father returned to the room.

At that moment in time, it didn’t matter to Tim that his death seemed imminent. (“Without some form of treatment, my diagnosis is three months. With treatment, you’re looking at another nine on top of that, perhaps fifteen in total.”) Three, six, nine? Tim didn’t care. (He would, later on, when he was alone. He would care very much).

“Father,” Tim said, eventually, only it wasn’t Tim, not really; “We should get going. Mother’s croquet class ends soon. She’ll want to hear the news.” With nothing else to say to his father nor his doctor, Tim stood, nodded, curt and brief, and left the office. He moved on autopilot to his father’s car, stepping out of the way for people, all the while nothing still really registering inside him.

Timothy Jackson Drake was dying. That was a confirmed fact. And it was unlikely to change, no matter which esteemed doctor(s) provided a second, third, or even fourth opinion. But that was okay. (It wasn’t okay). Tim was fine with that. (Tim was nowhere near fine with that). All good things had to end eventually. (Was Tim’s life even _good?_ ) It probably was. For someone else. Someone who wasn’t, well, Tim.

Sure, the money was nice, and the luxuries associated with said money. But that was about it. Private school wasn’t nice. Only having ‘associates’ wasn’t nice. Having part-time parents who wouldn’t even notice if you ran away, wasn’t nice. No, Tim’s life hadn’t been nice since the unfortunate passing of. Well. Of everything but himself.

* * *

 

_What do you even do when you runaway?_ Tim asked himself. He remembered when he did, as a child, a small boy of nine. He left a note on his bed, not for his parents, but for his nanny, and had stuffed his pockets with nuts and chocolate. He was gone for seven hours and made it all the way to downtown Gotham before a policeman picked him up. (Not because his parents had phoned the police in a frantic, desperate search; but because the policeman had thought he looked too nice to be roaming those streets and, when questioned, Tim found it difficult to lie. His parents had thought he was in his room. His nanny had been given the evening off, and so Tim could forgive her easily for not finding his note).

He figured he needed a bag, some clothes, a blanket, sparse toiletries, and cash. Of course cash. The one fortunate thing about part time parents? All of Tim’s bank accounts were in his name. His savings account wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. Tim had enough to not need to dip into that pile for a good few years, if he was careful, if he did everything properly- not that he had a few years anyway, it seemed. All this didn’t mean that his parents’ couldn’t trace his location by checking card purchases, of course; no, Tim would have to have his money in cash. It would take a few days, but Tim could withdraw enough to have him set for a month or two, and then withdraw more before moving on.

Perhaps he could rent a series of apartments, or hotel suites. The possibilities were endless!

All he had to do, first, was get out.

Not a hard task.

* * *

 

A week after his appointment with the doctor, Tim found himself sat in the front seat of a stranger’s car; an old, beat up Cadillac with a convertible roof and faux (possibly, hopefully) horns on the hood. Tim didn’t think he’d ever been in such an old car. He kind of liked it.

They drove in the dark, with the roof up but the windows down, the stranger holding a cigarette in his hands. Tim was certain that whatever this guy was smoking, wasn’t just tobacco. Tim couldn’t find it in himself to care; didn’t care about the way the stranger had slowed his car to a crawl besides Tim, asked if he wanted a ride, an inconceivable look in his glassed over eyes, the blue sitting sharp amongst the red rims. Tim hadn’t answered verbally, had just gotten in the car with this stranger and his (probable) drugs, and told him to take him somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here, and he’d pay for gas when they stopped. (They didn’t stop, this stranger had a full tank).

“Where you wanna go, kid?” The stranger asked, hours into the silence, offering Tim some of his (second) roll up.

“Not a kid,” Tim muttered, accepting the cigarette, attempting to smoke it- emphasis on attempting, because he choked, ending up coughing and inhaling most of it down his throat which was _bad, my God, that was so bad what the hell why do people_ do _this_ before promptly handing it back. The stranger had watched, bemused, thumping him on the back to help him get it all out.

“S’alright,” the stranger said, nodding as he took a drag, “It’s not for everyone.” Tim just glared out the window. “So where we going?” Tim didn’t react to the ‘we’. High or not, this guy was agreeing to take him somewhere. Tim thought it over a moment.

“How far is the Grand Canyon?”

“Seven hours.” The stranger said, right off the bat. “Five to six if I break every speed limit in place. You got gas money?” Tim nodded. The stranger drove on in silence a while longer, seeming to think about it. “Why the hell not.” He said eventually.

This entire scenario was surreal, but it was happening. And it was happening to Tim, goody two shoes Timothy Jackson Drake, who was dying, but that was okay, because he was no longer alone. He was driving somewhere far away with someone who was also (probably) far away, and who would probably, when sober minded, chuck Tim out at the nearest town, which was also okay, because it beats public transport and only puts him closer towards the Canyon, if they don't make it that far before it happens.

All in all, Tim thought he had this running away lark nailed down.


End file.
